“Oh, no--no, indeed,” demurred Marie, in a shocked voice. “Well, then, what is it?” Marie hesitated; then, with the abandon of a hurt child that longs for sympathy, she sobbed: “It--it's just that I'm afraid, after all, that I'm not good enough for Cyril.” Billy stared frankly. “Not _good_ enough, Marie Henshaw! Whatever in the world do you mean?” “Well, not good _for_ him, then. Listen! To-day, I know, in lots of ways I must have disappointed him. First, he put on some socks that I'd darned. They were the first since our marriage that I'd found to darn, and I'd been so proud and--and happy while I _was_ darning them. But--but he took 'em off right after breakfast and threw 'em in a corner. Then he put on a new pair, and said that I--I needn't darn any more; that it made--bunches. Billy, _my darns--bunches!_” Marie's face and voice were tragic. “Nonsense, dear! Don't let that fret you,” comforted Billy, promptly, trying not to laugh too hard. “It wasn't _your_ darns; it was just darns--anybody's darns. Cyril won't wear darned socks. Aunt Hannah told me so long ago, and I said then there'd be a tragedy when _you_ found it out. So don't worry over that.” “Oh, but that isn't all,” moaned Marie. “Listen! You know how quiet he must have everything when he's composing--and he ought to have it, too! But I forgot, this morning, and put on some old shoes that didn't have any rubber heels, and I ran the carpet sweeper, and I rattled tins in the kitchen. But I never thought a thing until he opened his door and asked me _please_ to change my shoes and let the--the confounded dirt go, and didn't I have any dishes in the house but what were made of that abominable tin s-stuff,” she finished in a wail of misery. Billy burst into a ringing laugh, but Marie's aghast face and upraised hand speedily reduced it to a convulsive giggle. “You dear child! Cyril's always like that when he's composing,” soothed Billy. “I supposed you knew it, dear. Don't you fret! Run along and make him his favorite pudding, and by night both of you will have forgotten there ever were such things in the world as tins and shoes and carpet sweepers that clatter.” Marie shook her head. Her dismal face did not relax. “You don't understand,” she moaned. “It's myself. I've _hindered_ him!” She brought out the word with an agony of slow horror. “And only to-day I read-here, look!” she faltered, going to the table and picking up with shaking hands a magazine. Billy recognized it by the cover at once--another like it had been flung not so long ago by her own hand into the corner. She was not surprised, therefore, to see very soon at the end of Marie's trembling finger: “Marriage and the Artistic Temperament.”